


The Road to Wolf Trap

by arts_and_letters



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Caretaking, Episode: s03e07 Digestivo, Fairy Tales, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Missing Scene, Quantum Mechanics, cannibal feels, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-20 02:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4770680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arts_and_letters/pseuds/arts_and_letters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Are you planning on carrying me the whole way?”</p><p>  “I will carry you as long as you let me. I would carry you to the ends of the earth, if you would allow it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All sorrows can be bourne

**Author's Note:**

> It may seem unrealistic for Hannibal to carry Will all the way from Muskrat Farm to Wolf Trap, Virginia, but I think we should all just assume that Hannibal is some sort of indestructible super human. That would explain a lot, wouldn't it?

The world is cloaked in black. The darkness is all encompassing, and it’s cold, painfully cold. He’s shirtless, shoeless, wrapped in an oversized, unfamiliar coat.

Because he can't see, he has to rely on the heightened abilities of his other senses. He can hear the soft sounds of tracks being made in the freshly fallen snow and the even, heavy, slightly labored breathing of his shadow self, the one who is carrying him through this land of black and snow.

Of course, he doesn’t need to see to know who is shepherding him through the darkness. After all, he’s seen the Stag so many times in his waking dreams and in his nightmares that he doesn’t need the stars or the moon or the light of the sun to know the form that it takes.

But still, he’s aware of a burning desire to reach out and touch it, to finally make contact, to bury his face in its fur. And yet, every time he tries to reach out, his fingers only find empty air.

The only thing he can feel is the soft jolt of each step, and a tight, invisible grip that promises to keep him in place.

Despite this grip, any time there’s a change in pace or the Stag slips in the snow, his stomach lurches, and a fearful anticipation grips him, because he’s already so cold, if he fell into the snow, he’s certain that the blood in his veins would instantly turn to ice.

Although maybe, just maybe, in this world of darkness and quiet, he would fall into the void and never hit bottom, and he can imagine worse fates than that.

But he doesn’t fall. It’s as if he’s fused with the Stag so thoroughly that nothing can rip them apart.

 This is nothing like the times when he rode horses—Western, a long time ago. That took concentration, effort, strength.

This, it’s like floating.

There was a time when he felt pure fear, a deep primal terror, every time the Stag came to him, haunting his days and nights. But now its presence promises safety and comfort. It’s a fragile comfort, he knows that it could shatter at any moment, but until it does, he allows himself to melt into the feeling.  

This moment is so profoundly peaceful that he can’t bring himself to care about where they’re going or how they got here. He’s so tired, worn, cold, and broken that he’s content to close his eyes and let the Stag take him where it chooses.

 There may be a time to fight, a time to run, a time to hide, but that time is not now.   And that time, it feels very far away. Everything except this moment, this moment right here, feels like it’s from another life, another universe entirely.   

For now, in this universe, the teacup has re-formed, and the Stag will keep him safe, and if Will Graham had a choice, he would stay here forever.

 

 

But the universe always conspires to rob him of his peace.

 _Will_  

As soon as he hears his name being called out softly, urgently, he feels the calm and quiet begin to dissolve.

_Will, can you hear me?_

The Stag doesn’t speak. It’s always been a silent specter, on the periphery, quiet, menacing, wordless. But this voice, this is a voice he knows, a voice that has taken up permanent residence in the darkest corners of his mind.

_I want you to try to open your eyes for me._

His eyes are open, even though it’s dark, he knows that they are, they have to be—

_Just focus on opening your eyes. Don’t try to move anything but your eyelids._

 He can’t find the strength to resist the command, the pull of that voice is too strong, and so he has no choice but to obey. Nothing happens at first, and then suddenly, his eyes are open, but before he can focus, before he can take in his surroundings, he’s blinded by the light of the moon and the stars, and he immediately shuts his eyes again.

“Will, try to keep them open. Stay with me."  

That voice, those words, that’s enough to make him to open his eyes again, with a groan, as he fights to move his unresponsive limbs.

  “Don’t tire yourself trying to fight the effects of the paralytics. You’ve been through quite an ordeal already, and we still have a very long walk ahead of us.” 

A scream tries to force its way out of his chest, but it dies in his throat.

 “I suppose for now I will have to make do with our one sided conversation.” 

After a few seconds pause, Hannibal says, “Blink once, if you understand what I’m saying.”

 Feeling mutinous, Will steadfastly holds his eyes open, until the cold air starts to sting his pupils, forcing him to grudgingly close his eyes, although he opens them again a second later.

“Good. I’m glad to know that you’re here with me, in mind and body.” 

Will makes another failed attempt to get words out before finally accepting that he’s in no position to speak or move, let alone fight, so he turns his attention inwards, focusing all his energy on assessing the current situation.

From his position, all he can see are trees, leafless and barren, and snow, snow extending out seemingly forever. And it’s only now that it fully hits him what his position is—in the arms of Hannibal Lecter, clutched to his chest, like a bride being carried over the threshold

There are no signs of life, no animals, no lights from houses. Nothing. They are completely alone.

That thought is chilling, terrifying—and exhilarating—but he tries to push down those emotions, especially the last one. 

Instead, he forces his brain to focus, to try to stem the flood of thoughts and feelings that threaten to swallow him up, because none of that matters. What matters now is cutting through the fog to figure out how he ended up here, unable to move, wrapped in someone else’s coat, in the arms of Hannibal Lecter.

He attempts to rewind his mental tape, to the last scene he can recall, so that he can work forward towards the present.

In his mind, he can see the two of them in Italy, in the gallery, side by side, first sitting, then walking out together. He feels the knife in his hand, hears the sound of the gunshot, remembers the sharp pain in his shoulder.

The tape lurches forward, to that apartment, Will helpless on the couch, Hannibal beside him, and there’s the sting of a needle, and his memory goes blank until the moment when he finds himself seated at the table, completely helpless. And then he sees Jack, entering unaware, and then they’re both hostages, strapped to their chairs for their long awaited last supper. Now, Hannibal is beside him, with a saw to his head, and Will is powerless to do anything as he waits to feel the life bleed out of him—

He pushes past that scene, skips ahead to their discovery. When they were supposed to be rescued, but were instead sentenced to a different destruction.

They were taken to Muskrat farm, like pigs, like the animals Hannibal thinks they are. And they were together, both of them, in transit, on the estate, at the table, in that cursed house, until— 

Another shot of fear and adrenaline surges through him as he remembers how he came to be paralyzed and powerless but wide awake, completely conscious, able to feel everything, able to watch from the periphery of his vision as the scalpel started to cut into flesh, prepared to—

His chest constricts as the full weight of the memory hits him, and he tries to move his arm—he has to feel his face, feel if it’s still there, if he still has a face—

Will had closed his eyes as he replayed that sequence of events, but now they are open wide, as another groan, barely audible, wrestles it’s way out of his throat, and with all of the effort he can manage, he thinks that maybe his right arm, the one not pressed tightly agains Hannibal’s chest, twitches just the tiniest amount.

Somehow through the many layers of clothing Hannibal must have sensed the movement, or at least the distress radiating off of him. Or maybe he can smell the fear.

Although Hannibal doesn’t pause or take his eyes off the path ahead, he does hold Will a little bit tighter as he says, “Your skin is still attached to your face. I could not have a pig like Mason Verger wearing a Will Graham mask.”

  Will should find that comforting, but instead a different kind of sickness settles over him, because he knows the hidden meaning, the words that Hannibal doesn’t give voice to: 

_The only person who can strip you of your face is me._

But a moment later the fear and sickness bleeds out of him, because this journey has gone on for so long—not just the interminable walk through this frozen wasteland, but everything that came before it, the trek across Europe, a desperate search for Hannibal, for himself, to find the link between them, never sure of whether his goal was to sever it or cling to it like a lifeline.

He can feel the weight of every single moment of their parallel and intersecting journeys, but somehow, in this no man’s land, none of the events that came before, none of the events that will inevitably come after, matter at all.  
 

 

  

It doesn’t take long for Will’s eyes, like the rest of his body, to start to feel heavy. Although his motor skills have yet to return, he can feel himself shaking involuntarily, a full body tremor, although whether from cold, trauma, exhaustion, terror, anger—he couldn’t say. Maybe all of those things. Maybe none of them.

He closes his eyes again, tightly, trying to will himself back into unconsciousness.

  “Open your eyes. Will. Don’t keep them closed."

  Why?

Will can only assume that Hannibal wants to see him suffer _._

“I’m not trying to hurt you, but I need to know if you start slipping away. I can hardly take your pulse or your temperature while I’m carrying you like this.”

Despite himself, Will opens his eyes. 

“Good, thank you for indulging me.”  

The words are warm, they’re the only thing in this entire pocket of the universe that has any warmth to it.

That thought makes him feel sick.

Nauseous, deeply nauseous, the kind of nausea he felt when he leaned over the sink, that terrible day, and coughed up an ear—Abigail’s ear—into the sink, a nausea that makes him feel like he’s choking, like a boulder has been shoved into his wind pipe, 

He opens his mouth, as best he can, gasping ineffectually—whether for air or in an attempt to dislodge the contents of his stomach, even he couldn’t say—but the adrenaline suddenly coursing through his body seems to give his system enough of a jolt to try once more to break through the paralysis.

He wants to scream, wants to punch, wants to run, but all he can manage are the barest movements, twitches that are hard to discern beyond the constant tremor already coursing through his body. 

Small as they might be, it’s enough for Hannibal to feel them.   He tightens his grip on Will once more, just the slightest bit, and says, “This is not the time to fight. You have no chance of hurting me in your current condition. Wait until you are safe and warm before trying to kill me again.”

 Warmth, safety—both of those things feel impossibly far away. It makes him want to close his eyes and slip back into the dream world where he’s with the Stag instead of Hannibal. Where he feels safe, settled, at peace. He wants to escape to the water in his mind. He wants to disappear, to fall into a hole in the ground so deep that he can’t see the stars.   He wants to be anywhere but here, and yet, this is the only place his mind is allowing him to be.

He can feel himself being swallowed up by it all—the helplessness, the futility, the burning in his throat and in his stomach, the cold that stings his skin. It overwhelms him, makes him feel like he’s drowning, and he’s embarrassed to feel the prickling of tears in his eye, threatening to spill out. With another almost inaudible groan, he closes his eyes in an attempt to stop the tears before they can fall. At the very least, he wouldn't have to see Hannibal’s face when Hannibal notices.

 Because Hannibal will notice. He’ll see, because he sees everything, every part of him, the parts he wants to share and the parts he wants to hide. 

And it’s not long before Hannibal becomes aware of Will’s renewed distress, although the few tears that have managed to escape are already starting to freeze on his cheeks. 

Hannibal pauses and carefully adjusts his grip on Will so that he can take off one of his gloves, and then he uses his thumb to gently wipe away the tears from Will’s skin.   Will is torn between wanting to shy away from the touch and desperately wanting to lean into it, but the touch is gone a moment later, before he has a chance to decide. 

Once Hannibal has his glove slipped on again, he uses his gloved hand to adjust the angle of Will’s head so that it is is tucked more firmly into the crook of Hannibal’s neck, shielded from the cold and from Hannibal’s piercing gaze.

Hannibal does not comment on either action. Instead he says, “You should never feel shame for expressing your feelings, not when we’re together. Your range of emotions is one of the things I have always most admired about you.”

  Will has so many things he could say in response, about how his emotions are a curse he has so often wished he could rid himself of, how he envies Hannibal’s lack of emotions at the same time that he hates him for it.

But he doesn’t have the strength to give voice to those words, and so instead they both settle into silence, and for awhile the only sounds are Hannibal’s footsteps in the snow, his rhythmic breathing, and the occasional creak of branches weighed down by the heavy snow.

Eventually, this quiet is interrupted when Hannibal says, “I’m going to set you down, just for a moment.”  

Will feels Hannibal pause, can hear the sound of him scraping snow with his foot, and then he feels himself being lowered, gently onto something—a tree stump, frozen, although most of the fresh snow has been scraped off. 

He is braced up against the strength of Hannibal’s leg and he can’t help but lean into it, wanting to feed off of it’s warmth, it’s solidness like an anchor that keeps him from floating away.

 With his eyes closed, he can almost convince himself that it’s the Stag, not Hannibal, not the man who just days ago tried to saw open his skull.

 And now, all at once, the memories he managed to push away earlier come flooding back.

It’s not the pain that burns brightest in his mind, it’s the sounds, the sound of his head being split open, the mechanical whirring, directly in his ear, the sound of Jack, yelling in the background.  He can still feel the blood, warm, red, running down his face, in his hair, in his eyes, bits of skin flying. He remembers the sick feeling of waiting for his skull to be torn in two.

As if reading his mind—and what a terrifying thought that would be, Hannibal already has enough sway over him already—Hannibal reaches down trace his fingers gently over his right temple, tracing the edges of the wound which has already started to heal, where the saw tore through his skin, prepared to reach bone.

He startles slightly at the touch, and his balance is so precarious that he could easily tip over, but before he has a chance to fall, there’s a firm hand on his shoulder, stopping him before he has a chance to slip.

While Will tries to control his breathing and calm his rapidly accelerating pulse, he can hear Hannibal say, in a soothing tone, “I promise, whatever piece of you I take next, I will leave your head intact.”

 But those words are no comfort. Hannibal has already spent so much time destroying his mind, from the inside out, tearing it apart so that he can place pieces of himself inside the newly opened fractures, that those words are meaningless. And Hannibal has already taken so many pieces from Will, what does it matter what he he takes next?

Maybe, after everything that has been said and done, by both of them, maybe none of this matters, maybe it’s all meaningless—the promises and the threats, betrayals and violent acts.

The dark wanderings of his thoughts are interrupted by another full body shiver, although he’s not sure if it’s brought on by the turn in their conversation or the fact that in his seated position, he’s more exposed to the cold than he was in Hannibal's arms.

As he tries to force his body to still, he hears the the rustling of clothing above him, and then he finds himself wrapped in another coat, one that smells of many things—animals, sweat, blood—but the freshest scent is pure Hannibal.

He can't stop himself from taking in a deep breath, inhaling the scent, letting the familiar smell wash over him. It shouldn't be a comfort, not after everything that's happened, but somehow it is.

As Will settles into the extra layer of warmth, he glances up, and in response, Hannibal answers Will's unspoken question.

“You don’t have the benefit of physical exertion to keep your blood flowing, and I can't risk you developing hypothermia before our journey is over."

 Those words— _before our journey is over—_ remind him of the question he has been too afraid to ask, because maybe he didn't want to know, but now curiosity wins out over the fear, and he finally manages to force the words out, though his voice is hoarse from the cold.

“Where are you taking me?”  

“I’m taking you home, although we still have quite a long road ahead of us.” 

Without saying anything further, Hannibal gathers Will up into his arms again. 

Will’s voice is slightly stronger as he wonders out loud, “Are you planning on carrying me the whole way?”

  “I will carry you as long as you let me. I would carry you to the ends of the earth, if you would allow it.”

  Will has no idea how to respond to that sentiment—he’s not sure if it’s comforting or terrifying or maybe both all at once—so instead he just closes his eyes. 

Thankfully, Hannibal seems content to let Will drop off. In fact, he encourages it, “Go into the quiet of the stream, Will. I will have you home when you wake up.”

  But Will doesn’t go into the stream. Instead, he goes back to the Stag.

 

 

 

 Time blurs and blends after this. Will tries to cling to the calm presence of the Stag, but he keeps slipping into nightmares, only to fight his way to the surface again, although he never brings himself back to full consciousness. Instead, he keeps himself submerged, below the surface, because at least for now, he’d rather wrestle with the nightmares inside his head than face the reality of the waking world.

Eventually, as he is trying to distance himself from his most recent nightmare—a gruesome mix of memory and the fears of his subconscious—he becomes aware of words from outside of his head, finally forcing their way through the barriers he’s thrown up in his mind. 

Curiosity more than anything drives him to focus on Hannibal’s voice—

_The valiant little tailor replied, “I will soon subdue the giants, but I will not require the help of the hundred horsemen to do it; he who can hit seven with one blow has no need to be afraid of two.”_

_And so the little tailor went forth, and the hundred horsemen followed him. When he came to the outskirts of the forest, he said to his followers, “Wait here. I alone will finish off the giants." Then he made his way into the forest, looking in all directions around him. After a while he perceived both giants as they lay sleeping under a tree, snoring so that the branches waved up and down. The little tailor, who had not been idle, gathered two pockets full of stones, and with these he climbed up the tree._

As the meaning behind the words finally washes over him, Will wakes fully and completely, opening his eyes as he asks, “Are you telling me…a fairy tale?”  

Will’s question causes Hannibal to pause mid sentence, but his response does not betray any hint of embarrassment, or any other emotion for that matter. 

“It's the story of the valiant little tailor from the Brothers Grimm. One of the stories my mother read to me when I was just a boy, and in turn, I would share with my sister, Misha.”  

There are so many responses and questions Will could give voice to, but instead, he simply asks, ”Why?”

“You seemed to be caught in the throes of another one of your night terrors. When you started to stir, I began to recite Dante’s Inferno in the original Italian but it served only to agitate you further. These stories were the one thing that soothed you.”

A part of him wants to ask how many stories Hannibal has gotten through while Will floated along half conscious and oblivious, but somehow he can't bring himself to ask.

When Will says nothing further, Hannibal says, “Would you like to tell me what it is that haunts your dreams?”

No, he wouldn’t, but somehow, as if Hannibal’s words have incited a Pavlovian response, he finds the words spilling out.

“I was at Muskrat farms again, strapped down in that chair. I could feel Cordell slicing into my face, but when I looked to in his direction, I saw your hand holding the scalpel. I tried to fight, but I couldn’t move. I could feel you cutting the skin off of me. I tried to close my eyes, but you wouldn’t let me. And after you were done, lifted the skin in one piece, and then you stood in front of me. You had my face on like a mask, and when you held up a mirror, I saw your face looking back at me in the reflection.”  Will pauses, swallows to try the clear the lump in his throat, before he continues. “And then you were gone, and the Stag was there. I watched as you—as _it_ impaled Mason with its antlers, in the same way that you mounted Cassie Boyle and Marissa Shurer. And then the dream shifted again, and I saw Margot and Alana, and the Stag was moving towards them and—” 

Will stops mid sentence as a sick feeling comes over him.

“Did you kill them?”

  “The guards, the wretched man who tried to strip you of your face? Yes, they’re all dead. As is Mason Verger, although I can’t claim credit for him.”

But Will doesn't care about their captors.

“Alana—Margot—”

  It seems like Hannibal takes an eternity to respond, although it may very well have been only a matter of seconds.

“I’ve spared Alana’s life for the moment, and I have no plans of going after Margot.”

 The words make Will feel better, at least incrementally, but before he can respond, he feels Hannibal slip on a patch of snow that has started to turn to ice, and they jerk forward, although Hannibal—who apparently has the reflexes of some sort of wild cat—catches himself before they fall forward into the snow.

 The jerkiness of the motion causes Will’s head to spin, and the nausea that had receded into the background comes back in full force. As Hannibal returns to his full height, Will starts to struggles against Hannibal, gasping, choking, and Hannibal obliges by bending down and loosening his grip so that Will can twist his body to the side, as the nausea overwhelms him.  

It feels like his stomach is trying to force its way out of his esophagus—it’s violent, and it hurts, deep in his chest, in his throat, in his gut, and once he starts, he’s powerless to stop, even when nothing comes up besides bile and small amounts of saliva. 

As he chokes out the contents of his nearly empty stomach, he can hear Hannibal whispering softly in his ear, “Don’t fight your body, Will. Just relax, and try to breathe. Allow your diaphragm to relax and contract, slowly and steadily.”

Will focuses on the words, and he also becomes aware of the fact that Hannibal has one arm wrapped protectively across Will’s chest, keeping him from falling face first into the snow. 

Once Will does manage to stop retching and finds himself able to breath again, he says hoarsely, “I’m sorry.” 

Even as the words escape his mouth, he has no idea why he’s apologizing. Isn’t this the least of the sins they’ve committed against each other?

 Hannibal waves off the apology. “Paralytics frequently cause nausea.”

Then Hannibal takes the bottom edge of his own coat, and delicately dabs at the corners of Will’s mouth.

In response to Will’s surprised look, Hannibal says, “It hardly matters. I’ll be burning these clothes as soon as we reach your home.”

Will closes his eyes and takes another shaking breath.

“Do you think you can move without getting sick again?”

Eyes still closed, Will nods.

Even more gently this time, Hannibal stands up to his full height, and then he pauses to let Will settle into his new position, before he rotates Will towards him, just slightly, so that Will’s face is more securely tucked against his chest. With his foot resting against a nearby tree trunk, Hannibal uses his knee to help support Will’s so that he can free one hand to wrap the jacket more tightly around the man in his arms.

With real gratitude, Will says, “Thank you,” although the words are addressed to Hannibal’s chest rather than his face, and the sound is muffled by several layers of clothing.

  Still, the sentiment is loud enough for Hannibal to hear.

“You are most welcome.”  

A pause, and then, “Now, shall we go?” 

The question, this time, is rhetorical, and Hannibal doesn’t wait for a response.

 They travel in silence for awhile, until, for the first time, Will becomes conscious of something else, someone else in the woods around them. He waits to see if it’s another specter of his haunted psyche, but when the feeling persists, he says, quietly as he can manage, “I think we’re being followed.” 

Unfazed, Hannibal says, “Yes, I know. Chiyoh has been with us since the beginning of our journey.”

  Will stiffens at those words. The one thing worse than being alone in a deserted forest with the man who tried to saw open his skull is knowing that they’re being trailed by the person who pushed him off a moving train and then shot him from a rooftop, like a sniper. 

Sensing Will’s discomfort, Hannibal says, soothingly, “You have nothing to fear from her. In this moment, she poses no more of a threat than I do.”  

That thought is less than comforting **,** but it relaxes him enough that he’s able to close his eyes, and focus on controlling his breathing, although there is a tension in his body that keeps him from resting comfortably.

Apparently sensing Will’s anxiety, Hannibal says, “Would you like to hear the story of Hansel and Gretel now?”  

“Isn’t that the one about a witch who eats children?” 

 “Yes, although she does not succeed in eating those particular children."

  Hannibal waits for Will’s response, but when his words are only met with silence, he adds. “I suppose that means you also don’t want to hear the story of Snow White?”  

“There’s cannibalism in that one too?”

  “Yes, in the original story, the one that hasn’t been sanitized for modern audiences. The queen eats the lungs and liver that belonged to Snow White, or at least that's what she thinks.”

  “But she doesn’t actually cannibalize Snow White?”

  “She intended to, and she believed that she had done so. Does it make a difference if fate intervened to keep her from completing the act?”

  “It’s too cold to have a philosophical discussion about cannibalism in fairy tales.”

  Hannibal pauses, reviewing his mental index.   “I will tell you the story of Little Briar Rose.” 

“I don’t know that one.”  

“It’s known more commonly as Sleeping Beauty.”  

“No cannibalism?”

  “Not in the Brothers Grimm version.”

  Will nods once to signal his approval. 

“Good. Close your eyes, listen to my voice, and together we’ll try to keep the nightmares at bay.” 

Obediently, Will shuts his eyes and lets the words wash over him. 

 _A long time ago there was a King and Queen who would lament each day their lack of a child, and yet they never had one. But it happened that once when the Queen was bathing, a frog crept out of the water onto the land, and said to her, "Your wish shall be fulfilled; before a year has gone by you shall have a daughter."_  
  
  
  


By the time Hannibal reaches the end of that tale, the even breathing pattern and quiet heaviness of the man in his arms signals that Will has fallen into a deep, and for now, apparently peaceful sleep.

 Hannibal hopes to keep Will asleep for the remainder of their journey. In the few minutes that he had to plan their escape from Muskrat farm, he concluded that the journey would be easiest for both of them if Will was as pliable as possible. With that goal in mind, before they made their escape, he had increased the dose of the paralytic and added a mild sedative—after he disposed of Cordell, of course. 

Although Hannibal had given Will the highest safe dose, in all likelihood the drugs will have lost all effect before they reach Wolf Trap. In fact, Will has already begun to regain control of his physical and mental faculties, although a combination of cold and fatigue seem to have conspired to make him mostly unaware of that fact. 

Still, he does not want to risk Will returning to consciousness with a renewed desire to break himself free of Hannibal’s grip. He can’t have Will wandering off into the darkness of the woods in his disoriented state.

And with this internal rationalization, Hannibal decides that he has no choice but to continue whispering to Will as he carries him through the dark.

Of course, there are many stories he could choose to tell. More tales from the Brothers Grimm, myths from the Ancient Greeks and Romans, Lithuanian folktales that he learned as a boy. In fact he could have gone on for many hours without exhausting his knowledge of folk lore.

But instead, he decides to spin a tale of his own.

It is not a typical fairy tale—it will not start with the words once upon a time, and it will not end with happily ever after.

This story is the tale of two men, isolated and lonely in their identically different ways, who together created a family with an orphaned girl, a girl who was almost a woman but who needed them as much as if she were a child. 

In this story, the girl—who has already lost both her parents—does not lose her life. And in this story, neither man betrays the other, and when the time comes for them to escape the lives they have built separately, all three of them leave together, as they were always meant to do. 

With vibrant and florid detail, Hannibal spins a tale of the adventures they have and the places they go. He tells of the lessons and skills that they teach to their charge—cooking and fishing and art and literature and the gentle ways of all God’s creatures. 

He describes the home they make together in the Italian countryside, close enough to Florence to fulfill a need for culture and stimulation but isolated enough that they can go weeks at a time without seeing anyone else, if that is the path they choose.   

He paints a picture of a beautiful, historic home that has just enough space without having too much. And although the one man declares that he doesn’t care how it is furnished, the other knows enough to decorate it in such a way that it feels like the home belongs to all of them equally, a blend of practicality and beauty and comfort.

It won’t be perfect all the time. They will disagree about the number of dogs and whether animals should be allowed to sleep on the furniture. They might argue about the necessity of spending so much money on rare ingredients and fancy suits. But they always find a way to settle their differences with reason and kindness, never with violence.

Because this is a story in which neither man conspires against the other. They may still have dark desires, but together they keep the darkest of these impulses at bay, and they never use the darkness against one another. 

And eventually, secure in the knowledge that she can always return again, the girl goes off to school—in Paris, perhaps—leaving the two men behind.

Once they are a unit of two instead of three, they continue to travel and eat and laugh and talk late into the evening. They cultivate hobbies, shared and separate. They quench their desire for violence and chaos in ways that do not leave a trail of corpses. And always they work together to repair their broken selves, without trying to tear each other apart.

This is the story—equal parts fantasy and fairy tale—that Hannibal tells to Will as he sleeps in Hannibal’s arms, undisturbed by nightmares, unaware of the place in another universe that Hannibal is carving out just for them. 

But before Hannibal reaches the end of his story, before he can decide how all of this is destined to end, the silhouette of that familiar house comes into view at the edge of the dark horizon.

And just like that, the spell is broken, and the teacup shatters once more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I already decided I wanted to have Will wake up to Hannibal telling him a story, but I got the inspiration to use Brothers Grimm stories from the book, Hannibal Rising. Here are the sources for the two stories I quoted in this: 
> 
> I got the text of the Valiant LIttle Tailor from this link, although I adapted it a bit: http://www.surlalunefairytales.com/authors/grimms/20bravetailor.html
> 
> Here's the source for the Briar Rose story, although again, I made some minor alterations to the excerpt I used: https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Grimm%27s_Household_Tales,_Volume_1/Little_Briar-Rose
> 
> I started a second chapter that covers what happens after they get to Wolf Trap before Jack shows up, but I want to focus on my post season 3 story, so I'm just marking this as complete for now.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who made it through this 5000 word story that had all of like 5 lines of dialogue. This is my first foray into Hannibal fanfic, so feedback is definitely appreciated!


	2. Means of Influence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's been almost a year since I posted the first part of this story! Now, at long last, here's the second and final chapter to this Digestivo missing scene :)

As soon as the house comes into view, Will starts to stir, emerging out of a deep sleep, disoriented, eyes unfocused, mouth moving without making sounds. 

Hannibal looks down at the man wrapped in a wool coat, enclosed in his arms.

“Welcome home.”  
  
Under his breath, more to himself than to Hannibal, Will says, “It doesn’t feel like home without the sound of dogs barking.”

Although Will knows Hannibal must have heard him, there’s no response from the other man, only silence, as Hannibal’s long legs quickly close the final distance separating them from the house.

Once they reach the solid ground of the front porch, Hannibal carefully sets Will down, and helps him get to his feet.  
  
Will's legs are unsteady, and for an instant he staggers awkwardly, like a newborn foal. He instinctually reaches out for an anchor to balance himself, but then Hannibal is there, bent over slightly so he can wrap his arm around Will’s midsection, and despite himself, Will allows Hannibal to guide him, too tired and weak to do otherwise.

As he feels Will relax in his grip, Hannibal draws Will in a little closer, while he uses his free hand to test the door. Finding it open, Hannibal says, “Still no lock, even with your canine protectors absent?”   
  
“There’s nothing here that I care about.” Will’s tone is laced with bitterness, even more so when he adds, “Not anymore.”

Hannibal’s only response is a slight narrowing of his eyes as he studies Will’s face, just for a moment, before turning his attention to the more pressing matters at hand.

His movements are quick but deliberate as he deposits Will in a chair and turns on the radiator.

As he removes his own snow covered outer coat and shoes, Hannibal looks to Will and says, “We have to get you out of these wet clothes so that you can start to warm up.”

Will immediately bristles at the use of  _we_.

“I can dress myself.”  
  
With the slightest raise of his eyebrows, a tone of light condescension, Hannibal asks, “Can you?”  
  
Will gives him a fierce, challenging gaze, but when he tries to strip off his coat, his arms get tangled up in the too large sleeves, and after finally freeing himself of that garment, his efforts to unbutton his shirt are fumbling and ineffectual, until Hannibal kneels down beside him and silently pushes Will’s hands away.   
  
In contrast to Will’s clumsy effort, Hannibal’s fingers are fast and efficient, his manner almost clinical, as he undoes each button and then guides the shirt off of Will.   
  
The whole time Will stares blankly at the floor in front of him, silent and motionless, too tired to fight or protest further. 

It might be the vestige of the drugs, it might be the shock, the trauma, the emotions overwhelming his frayed nerves, but in this moment he feels completely numb, both inside and out, and there’s only static in his mind—although he does manage to mumble a quiet thank you when Hannibal wraps a blanket around Will’s shoulders.

As Hannibal bends down and begins to remove Will’s shoes, there is a brief moment when the fog clears, pierced by a sudden realization. Looking directly at Hannibal, his voice the strongest its been since the beginnings of their desperate escape, Will says, “The FBI could get here any minute. You should go.” 

Hannibal carefully sets Will’s shoes—soaking wet from melted snow—on a towel by the door, and then he turns back to Will.

“I won’t leave until I know that you’re safe. Now, tell me, where might I find extra blankets and a change of clothes?”

“As if you didn’t look in every single drawer when you planted ‘evidence’ in my house.”  
  
“I had already done a thorough examination of your home when I first came to feed your dogs, but that was another life time ago. You might have re-arranged things since then.”  
  
“Does it look like I did any re-decorating?”

Casting a slightly disdainful glance around the room, Hannibal answers the rhetorical question with, “No, it doesn’t.” 

Then he adds, his tone almost cheerful, “Fear of change, Will. It’s something a little therapy might be able to help you with.”  
  
With a reflexive grimace, Will shoots back, “I’ve had enough therapy for this lifetime, thank you very much. I don’t think I could survive a second round. I’m still not entirely sure I survived the first.”  
  
Nimbly changing the subject, Hannibal says, “I would ask to borrow clothing for myself, but I imagine you don’t have anything in my size.”  
  
“Probably not.”

“Then I’ll have to make do with the clothes on my back, such as they are. May I borrow your washing machine and dryer?”  
  
“Yeah, sure.”  
  
“I don’t suppose you have a robe I could make use of while I wait? Although I wouldn’t mind it, I imagine you would be more comfortable if I weren’t completely without clothes.”

“In the closet, there’s a robe, someone gave me for Christmas a few years ago. I’ve never worn it, so it’s clean, although it may be a bit small for you.”  
  
With a nod of his head as thanks, Hannibal retrieves the robe, and then sets it down on the back of a chair as he begins to strip off his own clothing.  
  
Will is staring into the distance, unfocused, as Hannibal takes off his jacket and then his shirt, but out of the corner of his eye, Will catches sight of the mark on Hannibal’s back.  
  
Almost choking on the words, Will says, “Did Mason  _brand_  you?”  
  
Mildly, Hannibal responds, “He did. Or rather, his wretched assistant did.”

Wincing at the sight of the reddened, angry skin, Will says, “No wonder you were so happy to cut his face off.”  
  
“That was retribution for his sins against you, not me.”  
  
“Do you want me to thank you again?”  
  
“Once is sufficient.” 

An involuntary chill passes through Will, which—of course—doesn’t pass unnoticed.

“I’ll get you something to change into.”  
  
Opening one drawer and then another, Hannibal says, “Do you own anything other than boxers and khakis?”  
  
“Such as?”  
  
“Pants that one might sleep in?”  
  
“Oh, no, not really.”  
  
“Maybe you should ask for that come Christmas.”  
  
“I’ll add that to the list, along with the aftershave.”

“See that you do.”

Still searching through Will’s possessions, Hannibal adds, “I suppose we’ll have to make do with what you have here. You’ve been exposed to the elements for far too long to wear your usual sleeping ensemble.”  
  
With Hannibal’s help, Will is soon dressed in pants and a flannel shirt, and despite his initial resistance, eventually concedes to let Hannibal help him into bed, to rest, but not to sleep—as if Will could sleep in this moment, with Hannibal in his home, the FBI almost certainly en route, their arrival imminent and inevitable.  
  
As Hannibal settles into a chair beside the bed, Will turns on his side, so that he’s facing Hannibal. His body feels tired, completely devoid of energy, but his mind is restless, a jumble of thoughts swirling around so quickly that he can’t pin them down, so he occupies himself by watching Hannibal, as he studies words on a page, occasionally adding notes here and there.

Hannibal doesn’t acknowledge Will’s visual scrutiny, although he’s undoubtedly aware of it, just as he’s aware of everything that Will does, everything that Will thinks.

After some time, unable to bear the silence, Will asks, “What are you writing?”

Looking up from his work, Hannibal says, “Equations.”

“Equations? Like algebra?”

Hannibal smiles slightly at Will’s obvious distaste for the subject, and his tone is more indulgent than condescending when he says, “Nothing quite so rudimentary.”  
  
Closing his notebook with the pen to mark his place, Hannibal leans forward slightly and asks, “Are you familiar with the fundamentals of quantum mechanics?”

“Not in any depth. I take it you are?”  
  
“It’s one of many topics with which I have a passing familiarity.”  
  
“Modesty doesn’t suit you.”

The almost imperceptible twitch at the corners of Hannibal’s mouth is the only indication that he appreciates the return of Will’s sharper side.

Pushing himself up into a seated position, Will gestures to the notebook, and says, “Can I see?”  
  
Hannibal opens to the page once more and hands it to Will, who squints at the writing, flipping through the rest of the notebook before shaking his head and handing it back to Hannibal.  
  
“I have no idea what any of these symbols mean.”  
  
“I wouldn’t expect you to. Quantum mechanics is hardly the kind of topic that would be covered in a standard curriculum.”  
  
“It’s not exactly medical school material, either.”  
  
“No, far from it. As it happens, my interest in this topic predates my pursuit of the medical sciences.”  
  
Hannibal pauses, but Will waits, quietly, curious despite himself.  
  
Correctly reading Will’s silence as encouragement, Hannibal continues. 

“While I was still living in my family’s ancestral home, I had a tutor, Boris Jakov, who taught me many things about the world. Although I was fascinated by a variety of subjects, I was particularly taken in by the beauty of quantum theory and all the possibilities that it held.”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
“The possibility of an object that can be in two places, simultaneously. The idea that there may be many universes, existing in parallel, alike but different all at once. The promise that one day time may be viewed as just one more dimension, as traversable as the three dimensions we all know so well.”  
  
“That sounds like the stuff of science fiction.”  
  
“There’s a reason they call it  _science_  fiction. Of course, writers of fiction can only begin to touch on the complexity and beauty of this particular realm.”

“So you picked this up for fun?”  
  
“In the beginning, it was simply an abstract interest on my part, but that was before.”

Will is puzzled at first by that statement, but a moment later, the meaning crystallizes. “Before the death of your sister?”  
  
Hannibal nods once, in confirmation.  
  
Genuinely curious, Will asks, “And after?”  
  
“After Misha died, I was looking for a way to bring her back. To undo what had been done to her.”

“Are you still looking?”  
  
“There are many things I might change, if I had the power.”  
  
“Not just saving your sister?”

“I will always grieve the loss of my sister, but so much of my life has been lived in her absence—I’m not sure I would give all of that up, even for her. After all, perhaps I would save her, only to have her die once more.”  
  
“You could always save her again.”  
  
“I could. I could save her again and again, until I realize that there is no place for Misha in this world. Fate would always conspire to steal her from me.”

“Do you really believe that? That there are some people who don’t belong?”  
  
“You’re thinking of Abigail.”  
  
Will looks away, the pain still too sharp, too real, too vivid. 

With a soft, gentle tone, Hannibal says, “Fate didn’t conspire to steal Abigail away from you. I did.”

A spike of buried anger rears its head, and Will fires back, “You gave her back and then you took her away. You stole her again, and again and again.”  
  
Staring into the distance, past Will rather than at him, Hannibal says, “If I could go back—I would make a place for her. For all of us, together.”

“You did make a place for her, and then you destroyed it.”  
  
“You had a hand in that as well, even if you weren’t aware of it at the time.”  
  
“I made a place for her, the only way I could.”  
  
“In the halls of your memory palace.”  
  
“My mind isn’t a palace.”  
  
“It must be more than a stream.”  
  
“There’s a stream, and a meadow, and a forest filled with trees.”  
  
“And what dwells in the forest of your mind?”  
  
“On the edges of the forest, that’s where dark shadows live, so I try not to stray too far from the stream.” 

Watching Will, studying every line in his face, Hannibal asks, “Is she with you now?”  
  
Will shakes his head. “I let her go. I had to let her go.”  
  
“What if you didn’t? What if we had all gone off together?” 

“After you served the sacrificial lamb?”  
  
“If I had told you then, about her, would you have come with me?”  
  
“If I had confessed everything, would you still have wanted me to come?”  
  
“As long as the tantalizing promises of quantum mechanics are nothing more than symbols on paper, we can never know the answers to those questions as they would have been in the past. All we can know is what our answer would be now. What’s your answer?”

“I don’t have one.”  
  
“Is that so? Or do you simply not wish to share it with me?”  
  
Will pauses, for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought, until he finally answers, “Both.”

After a short pause, he asks, “Do you have an answer?”  
  
“If you had confessed everything to me on that fateful night, I would have forgiven you for your trespasses.”  
  
“Would you have had me go with you?”  
  
“Always.” 

Will’s fingers unconsciously prod at the stitches running along his temple. 

“You say that as if you didn’t try to saw into my head a few days ago.”  
  
“We all make mistakes.”  
  
Sarcastically, Will asks, “Even Hannibal Lecter, the apex predator?”  
  
Unbothered by Will's tone, he responds, cryptically, “The greater our powers of influence, the grander our mistakes will be.”  
  
“Which makes God’s grandest of all.”  
  
“That presumes God makes mistakes.”  
  
“Which assumes he exists.”  
  
“It does. But if we assume God exists, I don’t think his actions could ever be mistaken. That implies ignorance, or at the very least, unintended consequences. If one is omniscient, then how could anything be said to be a mistake? God may wreak havoc, but he does not err. All his doings, both good and evil, are intentional.”

“But neither one of us has the gift of omniscience.”

“Yes, much like you, I make my choices based on the information that I know to be true, and the inferences that I draw from what I know. I can no more predict the future than you can.”  
  
His voice suddenly raw, a note of pleading that he can’t quite extinguish, Will says, “But why did she have to die?”

“We all lash out when we are wounded. You wounded me, Will.”  
  
“And yet I’m the one with the scars to prove it.”  
  
“Not all scars are physical.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“In fact, it’s often the case that the scars which run deepest are the ones we can’t see.”

“Is that true for you?”  
  
“It’s true for everyone, I would imagine.”  
  
“That’s not what I asked.”

“I have been changed, as have you. Possibly in ways neither of us is aware. But I don’t consider myself scarred, not beyond the physical.”  
  
Hannibal pauses for a moment before asking, “What scars are you left with?”  
  
“Too many to count. I feel empty, like someone waged a scorched earth campaign on my soul.”  
  
“ _Vastatio.”  
  
_ “What?”  
  
“When the Romans conquered Carthage, they reduced the buildings to rubble, and set fire to the fields.  _Vastatio_ is the Latin word used to describe the Roman custom of laying waste to the lands that they vanquished.”

“That sounds about right.”

“It may be difficult to imagine in this moment, but you will heal, in time.”  
  
“Some scars run too deep to ever heal.”  
  
“And you will learn to live with those that don’t. I will always mourn the loss of my sister—just as we both mourn for Abigail—but I’ve found a way to live with the hole left by her absence. Humans are remarkably resilient creatures, and you are particularly so.” 

Hannibal is still staring at him, intently, and Will shifts uncomfortably under the scrutiny, looking down at his hands as they pull at a loose thread on the comforter.

After several long minutes of silence have elapsed, Will forces his hands to stop their nervous movements, and he looks up once more. 

His voice firm, unwavering, Will says, “You should leave.”  
  
“As I said before, I won’t go until I know you’re safe.”  
  
“This will be the first place they check for us—for you.”  
  
“Isn’t that what you want? To see me locked away forever? Or is my death the only thing that would sate your desire?” 

“I don’t know what I want anymore. I never did, really.”

“That’s always been your downfall.”  
  
“Indecisiveness?”  
  
“Yes. Too often your thoughts, your emotions, your loyalties are divided. You split your allegiance, between me and Jack, between your true self and the self you want to believe is yours. And as a result, you often fail to get your way. If you had, I wouldn’t be here to have this conversation with you.”  
  
“Indecisiveness didn’t stop me, a bullet did—twice.”  
  
“If you had really intended to kill me, a gun would have been a far better choice than a knife. Just ask Chiyoh.”  
  
“ _Chiyoh_ didn’t kill me.”  
  
“That wasn’t her intention. If it had been, you would already be dead.” 

When Will doesn’t respond, Hannibal presses.

“What was your intention, Will?”  
  
“Would it make a difference?”  
  
“It could.”  
  
Will doesn’t respond to that, either unwilling or unable to answer.

Settling back into his chair, Hannibal relents.

After the silence stretches out for several long minutes, Hannibal says, “Even without the tools of quantum mechanics, it’s not too late.”  
  
“For what?”  
  
“For us to pick up the pieces that remain—to rebuild the teacup. We could leave together.” 

Will's voice is tinged with bitterness as he says, “It is too late, at least for me.”

Pointedly, Will adds, “For us.” 

A flash of emotion—grief, pain, maybe regret—contorts Hannibal’s usually so impassive features, but the slate is wiped clean so quickly that Will can’t help but wonder if he imagined it completely. 

As if the entire prior conversation hadn’t happened, Hannibal says, mildly, “You’re tired. You should sleep.”  
  
“What about you?”  
  
“I will watch over you while I work.”

“And if Jack comes?”  
  
“Then he will come. But for now, you should rest.”

As Will sinks down deeper into the sheets, Hannibal stands up and leans over Will to pull the quilt up to his shoulders. Hannibal runs his hands over the surface of the fabric, smoothing out the wrinkles, before returning to his seat.

“I’ll wake you, if you have a nightmare.” 

“Thank you.” And with those words, Will closes his eyes, and allows himself to be lulled into sleep by the soft sounds of a pen on paper. 

Hannibal waits until Will’s even breathing confirms that he’s fast asleep. And when that time comes, Hannibal sets his notebook aside, pulls his chair even closer to the bed, and says, in a tone barely above a whisper—

 _If the promises of quantum mechanics were within reach, I would bring her back. Or I would go back—back before the teacup was broken. I would have revealed her sooner, convinced you to come with us, by whatever means necessary._  

 _You may not believe it after all that has transpired, but I did care for Abigail, as much as, maybe more than you did. I knew her, and I understood her. I saw so much promise—for her, in the future, in our future.  
__  
There was an entire world—an entire life—I wanted to give to the both of you. A life where we could have gotten away from all of this. We would have started anew, blank slates. We could have done whatever we wanted, wherever our dreams might take us._  

_Would I have killed again? I ask myself that at times. I suppose we’ll never know for sure. But if there’s one thing your presence has revealed to me, it’s that there are some things I treasure more than the taste of flesh, more than the marvel of feeling the life bleed out of someone unworthy of the gifts they were given._

_But maybe that path was never more than a fantasy. Maybe all that’s left for us is the chase. Would you follow me, hound me, to the ends of the earth, just like Frankenstein followed his creation into the icy north? Would you give chase until my death or until yours?_

_Perhaps, there’s nothing left for us but mutually assured destruction. And yet, as long as there’s breath in my body, and in yours, there’s still hope—maybe, some day, a new day, will find us, and we can rebuild the teacup together._

With a quiet sigh, Hannibal looks at Will’s face, bruised and bloody, yet so unguarded in sleep, and then he picks up his notebook, and returns to his work.

 

* * *

 

  _“I miss my dogs. I’m not going to miss you. I’m not going to find you. I’m not going to look for you. I don’t want to know where you are or what you do. I don’t want to think about you anymore.”_

“ _Goodbye, Hannibal.”_

 

* * *

  

Hannibal Lecter is not accustomed to the sting of rejection. It’s an experience—an emotion—that’s he’s rarely had cause to know.

He felt it acutely, for the first time, when he detected the scent of Freddie Lounds on the eve of their planned departure, and he feels it now, for the second time, just as unwelcome as the first. 

As he once more exits the warmth of the small house, he pauses just outside the door, staring out at the vast, snow covered fields.

“Leaving so soon?”

Hannibal looks to his left, following the sound of that familiar voice, to see Chiyoh standing in the snow, a figure clad in black, a stark contrast to her white surroundings.  
  
“I could just as easily ask why you haven’t left yet.”  
  
“I asked you first.”  
  
“Will has said his goodbyes. There’s nothing left for me here.”  
  
A moment later, he adds, “Nor for you.” 

“That’s not true for either of us.” 

Hannibal is silent, neither denying nor affirming the sentiment, as he slowly walks down the stairs, until he’s standing in the snow next to Chiyoh.

“He’s your nakama.”

“Did Will tell you that?”  
  
“He did.”  
  
“When he vaulted over the walls of my childhood home?”  
  
“Yes—he said that you were nakama. That he knew you intimately. That he’s never known himself as well as he did when he was with you.”  
  
“And what did you say to him?”  
  
“All sorrows can be borne if you put them into a story.”  
  
“The words of Lady Murasaki.”  
  
“Yes. And there are means of influence other than violence.”  
  
“Her words as well.”  
  
His head turned slightly to the side, Hannibal wonders out loud, “What story will you tell of these times?”

“I’m not interested in telling tales of the past. I’m only interested in what’s to come.”

Turning to follow Hannibal’s gaze as he looks out into the distance, Chiyoh asks, “Where will you go now?”

“I have everywhere to go.”

“Then why are you still here?”  
  
Hannibal pauses, pondering those words. Ultimately he offers a question of his own, in lieu of an answer.

“What was it like, to be a caged bird? To live your life with wings clipped?”  
  
“It was suffocating and—comforting.”

“To know where you belong?”  
  
“To always know what the next day will bring.”

“Is it better to be trapped? Or to wander the world unmoored?”  
  
“There are worse things, than being locked away.”

“Are there?”  
  
“We can never be free when we leave behind the ones we love. They’re like an anchor.”

“Sometimes all we can do is leave.”

“You can choose whichever path you wish—as long as you’re willing to live with the consequences.”

Chiyoh waits, allowing her words to sink in, giving Hannibal a chance to turn them over in his mind.

Eventually, she asks, “Is he your nakama?”  
  
“He is.”

“You can choose to leave, but once you go, the path back may no longer be open to you.”

"A lesson I know too well.”

Hannibal’s gaze turns back slightly towards the house, then back out to the fields, before he turns to face Chiyoh.  
  
“Perhaps it’s time for you to go free while I explore a world of cages.”

Her features hide any reaction to those words—good or bad. Her only response is a simple, “Goodbye, Hannibal.”  
  
And with those words, Chiyoh turns and begins her trek across the fields, towards the distant tree line.

As Chiyoh recedes into the distance, Hannibal wraps his coat more tightly around himself and waits for the sight and the sound of sirens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, before I launch into the rest of my inevitably way too long author's note, I just want to say how much I appreciate the positive response I got to the first chapter of this story. It was by no means my first fanfic, but it was my very first Hannibal fic, and as a newly minted fannibal, I was really nervous that I wouldn't do justice to these wonderful characters. The positive feedback was very encouraging, so thank you to everyone who took the time to read, and especially to those who left comments or kudos. We fannibals may not be the biggest fandom, but I think we make up for that in enthusiasm and devotion. I feel very fortunate to have stumbled on this great community. 
> 
> It took me longer than I originally intended to get this second installment posted, but I've always loved Digestivo, especially the concluding scenes. And yet, we only got a few tantalizing glimpses into what transpired between Hannibal and Will after their escape from the Verger estate. I also have to admit I liked the idea of Chiyoh acting as the little birdie on Hannibal's shoulder. 
> 
> (Incidentally, this is my first time writing dialogue for Chiyoh. I hope I did her justice.)
> 
> Also, I finally got around to joining tumblr. You can find me at [artsandlecterverse.tumblr.com](http://artsandlecterverse.tumblr.com). I mostly post captioned screencaps of Hannibal episodes. It's basically pure Hannigram crack. I do also post story updates for new chapters, etc. If that's your kind of tumblr, feel free to check it out.
> 
> A couple more miscellaneous notes/citations:
> 
> Obviously the italicized dialogue is taken from Hannibal and Will’s conversation in Digestivo. I based the Hannibal/Will conversation about quantum mechanics on some twitter post from Bryan that I saw forever ago that made some reference to what Hannibal was writing in his notebook. I just kind of ran with it from there. I’m assuming Bryan based this off of the book Hannibal, where Hannibal wanted to bring back his sister Misha. (I have to admit I have yet to read Hannibal, although I have read the other three Lecter novels. Also, I know nothing about quantum mechanics, aside from what little was taught in my college chem and physics classes.)
> 
> I also decided it wasn’t too much of a stretch to attribute the “means of influence” and “all sorrows can be borne” lines to Lady Murasaki. After all, Bryan Fuller said that originally he was looking to cast someone as Lady Murasaki, but instead he changed the role to Chiyoh for Tao Okamoto. Oh, and Mr. Jakov the tutor is from Hannibal Rising, but I don’t know that we were ever told his first name. (I went back in and searched the text, but I only found him referred to as Mr. Jakov.) However, in the season 3 opener, Hannibal introduces himself to Dimmond as Boris Jakov, so I went with Boris as his first name.
> 
> Okay, I've rambled on for long enough. Thanks again to everyone who's read this story, and as always, if you have a chance to leave a comment, I always love to hear from you guys :)


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